Charles de Lint - Forests of the Heart

Hunter picked up the torn piece of canvas. It was most of the Green Man’s head, the paint smeared in one corner where it hadn’t quite dried yet. Miki still had a smudge of green on her jeans where she’d wiped off her fingers. It had looked like blood, weird green blood, the kind that would come from the veins of a tree man.

“That’s part of Donal’s painting, isn’t it?” Hunter said. “What happened?”

Miki wouldn’t look at the piece of canvas in his hands. She’d had her fill of looking at it.

“Miki?”

“Nothing happened,” she said. “Donal came home in a snit and trashed it, end of story.”

“But after all the work he must have put into it…”

Miki shrugged. “It was supposed to be him, you know. Like a self-portrait. I didn’t realize it until I got up this morning. You can see it in the eyes.”

Hunter looked, but it was plain he couldn’t find what she had.

“But why would he—”

“Trash it, or paint the damn thing in the first place?” Miki broke in, her voice sounding oddly calm to her ears. “That’s easy enough. He put his foot through it so he wouldn’t have to drag it around with him when he left last night.”

She was aware of the worried look Hunter was giving her, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

“And he painted it because he thinks they’re going to make him the Summer King, the stupid little shite.”

“The summer king?”

“Umm. Only say it capitalized—the way Pooh bear would.”

“You’re losing me here,” Hunter told her.

Miki sighed and butted out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “Donal’s got himself mixed up with what he thinks are the Gentry—you know those hard men that were after you the other night?”

“Yes, but what do they have to do with anything?”

“It’s a long, tedious story. Sure you wouldn’t rather go for a beer instead?”

“It’s not even noon.”

“Well, I could go for one, except I’m fresh out. You can’t keep beer in this place—not with Donal around. But I suppose that’ll change now.”

“He’s going on the wagon?”

Miki laughed, wincing at the bitter edge she could hear, the complete lack of humor.

“As if,” she said. “No, I threw him out last night.”

“You—”

“That’s right. Out on his ear.”

“Because he was drinking… ?”

Hunter didn’t try to hide his confusion. What would be so unusual in Donal drinking?

“No,” Miki said. “Because of the painting.”

“The painting.”

She could see that he was trying to understand, but not making any headway. She didn’t blame him. It made no sense, considering ’ow close they’d always been, she and Donal, the two of them against the rest of the world.

“Because of what it means,” she told Hunter. “Because he’s bought into all this old, hurtful shite and I don’t want to see where it takes him. Maybe I can’t stop him but I’ll be damned if I’ll watch him do this to himself.”

“You’ve totally lost me,” Hunter said. “You’re going to have to start at the beginning.”

Miki gave a slow nod. “How about we at least do it over a cup of tea?”

“Sounds good. Do you want to have it here, or go out for it?”

“I think pretty much anywhere but here would feel better.”

Bettina found herself dreaming about los cadejos —something that hadn’t happened in almost seven years, not since the night her grandmother had walked out into the desert during a thunderstorm and never come back. The little pack of raucous dogs came to her while she was wandering through the winter Newford streets, a burst of rainbow colors, yipping and yapping some silly song, gamboling all around her, goat hooves clacking where the pavement was bare. She wasn’t sure how long they went traipsing through the streets together, but after a while los cadejos drifted away, leaving only the echo of one of their nonsensical songs behind, and then it was her abuela walking with her, arm-in-arm on one side, the Virgin Mary on the other—completely improbable, claro, but this was a dream, and wasn’t anything possible in a dream? Or at least one didn’t think to question the improbabilities while dreaming.

Just before Bettina woke up, the three of them were sitting on a patio outside a Lower Crowsea restaurant in a snowstorm, trying to get a waiter’s attention. La Virgen had been particularly testy, constantly repeating, “All I would like is some mineral water. Is that so much to ask? One small bottle of mineral water. You would think I was asking for the blood of my Son.”

Bettina woke to a terrible guilt, feeling as though she should go to confession for even dreaming such a thing about the Virgin. But after seven months of living in this city, she still hadn’t found a church to attend. Truth was, she hadn’t tried very hard. She had looked, especially when she first arrived, but she didn’t feel at home in any of the ones close to Kellygnow—there were too many gente rica, rich people, for her to feel comfortable—and Our Lady of Assumption on the East Side, where Salvadore and Maria Elena went, was too far away, though Salvadore had offered to pick her up whenever she wished to go.

Pew, she and her faith were no longer as close as once they’d been. She wasn’t sure if it was her fault, or that of the church, but she hadn’t been attending mass regularly even before she’d left home to come here. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been to confession. The only tangible result so far was Mama’s exaggerated disappointment.

Bettina sighed. Sitting up, sleep still thick in her eyes, she regarded the John Early statue of la Virgen that stood in her room. There was no recrimination in her eyes, but then the Virgin never accused.

“Perdona,” Bettina apologized. “I know you have unlimited patience and would never be so rude.”

The house seemed quiet as she washed up and got dressed, as though everyone in residence was either out this morning, or sleeping late, but when she reached the kitchen, Nuala was there as usual, pouring Bettina a mug of coffee as soon as Bettina came in through the door. There was guilt in this, too, for Bettina, having someone see to her needs the way Nuala did. While she could understand the housekeeper looking after the others—the artists and writers—she was uncomfortable when Nuala’s efficient administrations included her. Meals, laundry, coffee, and tea. “You are a guest in this house,” Nuala explained to her. Sí but not one of any great importance.

Sometimes Bettina felt everyone was far too generous to her.

“A package came for you this morning,” Nuala said.

Bettina smiled her thanks for the coffee and carried the steaming mug over to the table where the package waited for her, brown paper, wrapped in twine, with an Arizona postmark.

Mama, she thought until she saw that the return address was La Gata Verde in Tubac. Adelita’s store. She opened the package to find a cardboard box. Inside was a letter lying on top of tissue paper. It read:

Mi estimada Bettina,

It was rude of me to speak the way I did last night—I am writing this on Monday morning, I wonder when you will receive it? Before the weekend, I hope, but only if I get it into the mail today.

You know I’m not one to analyze my feelings—certainly not the way Suzanna does. She watches way too much Oprah, so far as I’m concerned. But I do know there are hidden reasons for why we do and say the things we do, and I have thought much on why I am so unforgiving when we speak of Abuela and things mystical. The truth is, mi hermana, I am jealous. It seemed to me that Abuela always had more time for you. I know this was because you never tired of her stories and desert treks as I did, but logic doesn’t always enter into how we feel, does it?